Sophie always had a thing for bold choices. Whether it was her decision to move from London to Brazil or her love for tattoos, she believed life was meant to be lived loudly. So, when she found a cheap apartment in an old building covered in graffiti, she thought, Why not?

The landlord—a shady guy named Carlos—warned her, “This place has a… history.”

“Perfect!” Sophie grinned. “I love history.”

But what she didn’t know was that this wasn’t just any graffiti-covered building—it was cursed.

The Mysterious Morning

One morning, Sophie woke up feeling strangely… heavy. Her skin itched. She dragged herself to the bathroom, rubbed her sleepy eyes, and—

AAAAAHHHH!

Her reflection stared back at her, wide-eyed and absolutely covered in graffiti. Every inch of her skin was filled with black, red, and blue ink, from gang symbols to random words like “KING” and “MORTE.” Even her forehead had something ridiculous written on it: “NO PARKING”.

“What the hell?!” she gasped.

She frantically scrubbed her skin with soap. No luck. Toothpaste? Nothing. Bleach? Bad idea—now her skin burned.

Panicked, she stormed out of her apartment, wrapped in a towel, to confront Carlos.

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME?!” she screamed.

Carlos took one look at her and dropped his cigarette. “Dios mío… it happened again.”

The Curse of the Graffiti Spirits

Turns out, the building was once home to a legendary graffiti artist named El Fantasma. One night, after drinking too much tequila, he fell asleep with a spray can in his hand and accidentally graffitied himself to death. Since then, every new tenant woke up looking like a walking art project.

“No one lasted longer than a week,” Carlos admitted. “They all left.”

Sophie, however, wasn’t going down without a fight.

“There has to be a cure!” she pleaded.

“Well…” Carlos scratched his head. “There’s one way.”

The Tattoo Artist from Hell

Carlos sent Sophie to an underground tattoo artist named Diablo, a man whose hands were steadier than a surgeon’s but whose hygiene standards were… questionable.

“I can fix you,” Diablo smirked, cracking his knuckles. “But it’ll cost you.”

“How much?”

He handed her a mirror. “Your soul.”

“…Okay, but like, do you take PayPal?”

Diablo laughed. “Nah, chica. The only way to reverse this is by covering the graffiti with real tattoos. Every single inch.”

Sophie had no choice.

A 72-Hour Tattoo Marathon

For three days straight, she endured the buzzing needle. Her arms, legs, back, and even her ears were transformed from chaotic graffiti into stunning artwork. Roses covered the gang symbols, angel wings replaced the creepy skulls, and instead of “NO PARKING”, her forehead now read “Limitless”.

By the time Diablo finished, Sophie looked like a masterpiece.

“Well?” she asked, exhausted.

Diablo shrugged. “Now you’re just officially tattooed. You still look like a gangster.”

Crap.

Tenerife, Here I Come

Realizing she could never go back to a normal office job, Sophie did the only logical thing—she moved to Tenerife.

Why? Because tourists in Tenerife loved tattoos.

She landed a job as a waitress at El Loco Taco, where her ink became a major attraction. Tourists took selfies with her. Kids stared at her like she was a superhero. Drunk guys tried to read her ribs like a menu.

One day, a Hollywood producer eating nachos at her restaurant saw her and said, “You’d be perfect for my next action movie.”

And just like that, Sophie went from graffiti victim to movie star.

As for the cursed building? It’s still standing, still covered in graffiti, still waiting for its next unsuspecting tenant.

The End.